Wall
by LePetitPappillon
Summary: It began with a wall.
1. Chapter 1

It began with brick and mortar; with two brothers caught on opposite ends. It began with a loss of pride, with freedoms burned alive in tar pits before their very sights.

It began with a wall. At first, no one really believed it was actually happening. They stood by it, watching the workers stack up those bricks and lift up the fence.

And all of a sudden, Germany wasn't Germany any longer. People got their labels. Were you East or West? Were you crimson or were you clean? All due to concrete and wire.

Families were cleaved clean in half; a piece of beef subjected to the point of the butcher's knife. There was plenty of blood left upon the board, but no one took the time to clean it off. Those assassins certainly didn't care. After all, they were just men just doing a job just as they were told to it. All of this occurred while Gilbert Weillschmidt watched. He watched as his brother was caught on the other side of that prison door, while his half of Berlin was coming to an infection. It's once beautiful flesh was seared red, dipped in pigment and overcome with loving propaganda.

He could feel the pride dying within his chest, that once happy core running and shattering in its fragility.

They had lost the war.

But they had lost far more than just the war.

Families, hope, blood, words. They all grew empty; they died. The sentiments and the people.

There was no certainty at what to do when Ludwig was lost. Gilbert had asked a thousand times to go over to the West. It's only a border after all, so who cares? But every time, he was sent back. It didn't work that way. No longer could you come and go as you pleased. Berlin was not one city; it was two. Why do you keep asking? Don't you understand? Go home.

So Gilbert did what most of them did. He gathered with the rest of the unfortunate at the wall's edge and merely looked upon what used to be his. The West. The unattainable; his brother. They could only wave now.

Then, he joined the communists, and Weillschmidt patrolled that great ugly wall, with his ugly uniform and his ugly rifle in that ugly hell hole.

The only uplifting bit of that day was the promise of _glancing_ at his younger brother through that boundary. Every night, at six, they came to their spot upon the dirt and rose up their ruined hands.

Hello, Gilbert.

Hello, Ludwig. I'm beginning to forget your voice.

That's alright. It's not your fault.

And they would look onto one another, choking down the fact that they might as well never speak again. The entire ritual was like chewing on wretched tin foil. It was terrible to glance at one another; remember what was gone. Reopening the scabs and staring down luscious food with empty stomachs.

But imagine the ache of letting go.

It would be _so_ much worse.

Neither would willingly release the past forever.

So they didn't.

Yes. That was how it began. With two brothers being torn to shreds by the vicious attack dogs of the Soviet Union. A mal-formed iron curtain and everyone forgetting to say their good-byes.

But that was certainly not how it ended.

After all, this is not a story of shameful cowardice. This is about Gilbert Weillschmidt and Gilbert Weillschmidt does not whither beneath oppression. Gilbert Weillschmidt was not a pansy. Gilbert Weillschmidt was a goddamn hero, and that mother fucking wall was crumbling or he was running through it.

I'm certain you can guess what happened.


	2. Chapter 2

It was 1963 when Gilbert stood beneath the hot summer sun and sweated like a boar. His platinum blond hair was laced in that stick and his black, shiny boots melted into the dirt beneath him. His throat was dry. His eyes strained. His mind whirled around in circles.

But he still managed to listen as his comrades called to one another.

"It's so _hot_."

"I'd rather eat chewed-up tobacco than tolerate this _shit_ another minute."

"_God._ It's only twelve? I feel like we've been out here ten hours!"

The man sighed. That gun was getting really goddamn heavy.

"Gilbert!"

Those intense eyes did not acknowledge the presence at their flank. But the accent was certainly recognized.

"Gilbert, come on. Don't ignore me."

"What do you want, Braginski? Don't you see I'm working here?"

There was chewing within the soldier's ear. It was like nails on a chalk board. Oh how _excruciating_ that noise was. Gilbert could deck his uninvited guest in a quarter of a second.

The gun shook in between his sweating hands.

Finally, Gilbert turned to the other.

"Can you stop with the goddamn chewing? I'm just about willing to rip that nose off your stupid _Russian_ face! Go get a sunburn somewhere else!"

"Don't you know, Gilbert? This is the best place for a sunburn." A bite was taken from that loaf of bread. Russians and bread. Almost like birds to grain. "Anyway, I would stop with the 'goddamn' chewing, but that's the only way I can eat." A smile broke against that cocky expression. "Do you want a piece? I'll share with you. After all, we're the best of pals."

"I don't understand you. Your accent's too thick."

"Oh, Gilbert; so cruel. Well, since you're so grumpy today, I guess I'll have to take pity on you. Here." That gargantuan hand tore the loaf in two, and the other end was held out to the one on duty.

But he didn't take it. The starving one did not even regard that heavenly slice of bread. The scent drifting from its middle was not taken in. That delicious, tempting odor…Gilbert's mouth was not watering. Don't be insane.

"No?"

"_No._"

"Well, alright then. I can't force a man to eat. Have fun getting a sunburn."

As that irritation moved away Gilbert's fiery glare moved toward it. Everything about that man was infuriating. Those light blue eyes, that fluffy blond head- nearly the same color as the enraged man's. What was truly frustrating was that huge fucking build. Gilbert hardly reached his shoulder. _Most_ men hardly reached his shoulder.

One of those palms could cover your entire face. No, really.

And that nose-! For some reason, that curved feature was the worst of all. The irrational hatred could not be articulated. It was almost as though one child harbored an unfixable loathing toward another. Every last one of those attributed was mangled and hideous in some regard. If it was not the looks alone it was personality. Never becoming angered, never coming to a retort. Just grinning. As though the serrated words were _compliments_.

Braginski was doing it on purpose.

That was it.

For a moment, Gilbert shoved his rifle into the hackneyed dirt beneath his melting boots. Not even his anger could overrule his hunger.

It brought his mind to other matters.

There had to be a way to get out of here.

Were people making planes yet? Pay enough and get a trip over the Berlin Wall? How about hot air balloons? Tunnels? _Anything?_

Just how much would you give, Weillschmidt?

Anything, if I could just see Ludwig again.

Well, alright then! You'll be our next contestant! All you have to do is clear the Berlin Wall and you'll get the prize of your lifetime! A free trip to the _beautiful_ West Germany, a pass to see your darling brother, and all the freedom you can possibly handle!

Sounds great. When can I start?

Gilbert sighed. He stretched his sore back. Arms rose up into the air, joints popping and bones cracking. His whole body bitched about the work. How could the statues even put up with this? And they weren't even paid.

_There has to be a way out of here. _

That proud blood boiled in its life. This wasn't any way to spend time. Think of the things that could be done. All of those hours, spent standing next to a grey wall in a grey city with a heavy grey gun, watching something no one had the balls to get _near_. Listening to misplaced Russians and writhing. He could be _building_ something. He could be _distracted._

_Distracted..._

It was awful to stand around all day, doing nothing but looking intimidating. Gilbert wouldn't shoot one of his own, so the threat was nothing more than the uniform he was wrapped in. He wouldn't shoot an East Berliner for anything. He had made a vow to help others get over the wall. But no one wanted to take that risk. It was like leaping into a vat of oil. Your survival was slim to nothing, and all for a heavy cost.

They shot you _dead_.

No chance to explain yourself.

Aim for the head, the heart. The vitals, baby. Clip 'em where it counts.

Gilbert's stomach dropped into his sweltering feet. Disgust welled up as the water to a broken fountain. It was _sick_; what they asked of them. As though killing was not enough. No. Kill your own people. People with the same wants you likely had. No one _desired_ to be here. No one was happy to say they were stuck on the communist side of the wall. No. In the back of any of their minds there was the burning need to kick over that mass of brick oppression and fucking _run._

But the truly brainwashed wouldn't hesitate to take the life if the innocent. After all, they were only criminals because the Wall said they were criminals.

There were stories of people escaping.

Stories of officers getting chewed out and fired. Maybe even locked up.

Unfortunately, they were all just stories. Nothing more than folk.

_There had to be a way out of here. _

Gilbert picked up that firearm, its tail laced in dust. Oh well. He would never use it.

The man on duty went back to being on duty.


	3. Chapter 3

He sat by the window, staring into that saddened reflection, into those eyes gone deep. They were so brown they were nearly red.

That palm settled upon his forehead, brushing away those platinum bangs, thumb settling next to a mouth bent into a frown.

It was the nights that were the worst.

It was the nights when the loneliness preyed upon him as a fool insect to the deadly web.

He thought of them again. How could one not think of the past when the future was so dull? There was no future. Who was there to kid?

Gilbert recalled his very first love. His rival. And of course, his sibling. That darling baby with those sugared blue eyes.

Elizaveta. Roderich. Ludwig.

How were they? He would give anything to see them again. Even that goddamn Austrian who insisted so heavily upon taking hat woman for himself. He was still better than Braginski. Anyone would be an improvement to that bastard.

And what of Elizaveta? That kindly Hungarian with those enchanting lashes? Had Roderich finally caught her? Had she finally caught Roderich?

A sip of cool coffee; it was watery and bitter.

And Ludwig.

Ludwig was always imagined as small. It did not matter that he reached a height even greater than that of his elder bother's. He was the child. It was so difficult to place him in another position.

Gilbert might as well have been his father. They had no true parents. They were long gone before Ludwig could even speak. The older had taught him everything he knew. It was part of the reason why so much pride was sent to the side of blond. Gilbert had made that man who he is. Or at least, was.

This separation was like severing an artery. Cutting the tie from the blood to the heart, two cardinal functions destroyed by a grey brick.

The man with such strange crimson eyes inhaled a mighty breath, as though words were gathering about that conflicted tongue. They were too heavy to allow free, and they bunched there in their little clusters, weighing upon the man's gritting teeth.

If he could, Gilbert would offer all his apologies to the younger; he was not a perfect guardian by any means. And, as any guardian, there was a level of guilt for sending him away.

It was important for Ludwig to find his own path, but he ran from that protective little nest as fast as he possible could. At seventeen, he got himself a job and roommate. Then the younger sibling escaped without much more than a simplistic good-bye. He left with his brief case of bare necessities and flew from the balcony as though that body had been inside a cage the last several years. The mama bird did not need to throw her babies from the nest; they were perfectly content to jump on their own accord.

He must have been desperate to leave. It was obvious.

But perhaps it was for the better.

Now, the eagle had been freed, and was safe within a cozy nest called West Berlin. They were so foolish. People fled while the wall wasn't completely built. They _saw_ it coming. They paid attention. They claimed their freedom before the communists claimed them. Mice to rabid cats.

But Gilbert wasn't so intelligent. He didn't believe for a moment that this little barrier of theirs was such a grand threat. After all, what was it but brick? Cement, wire. What could a _wall_ possibly do? It didn't breath. It didn't fight. It didn't do anything at all but draw a line. But no one counted on this wall, this awful gem of all the oppression in the world, to have a million different guards, all armed and all dangerous. Well, all but one. It was difficult for Weillschmidt to consider himself one of _them_.

No, the wall did nothing. It was the people standing around it.

Focus attached to the moon. A crux fell into a vat of sour coffee. Those lashes burned like hell fire.

They called this living. Living for a purpose far larger than one person alone could ever stand for. But there was not a free breath within Weillschmidt's lungs. Each was tied to a hammer and sickle, heavy as anchor and constricting as scoliosis.

These ideals were bending him into a knot, slowly, but with absolute certainty. His ribs grew more and more fragile every day, with heaving organs smashing into them.

There was not a lick of mercy in East Germany. Perhaps the only one who held it within that stomach was the foreigner himself. After all, this was not his home. He watched those resolute people, marching down the streets, tearing down old buildings, erecting new ones and dipping them in heavy red pigment. Pasting images of great Russians over them. Making posters and branding themselves in a pride that did not sprout from their own blood.

They were not proud to be German. They were proud to be Soviets.

Gilbert couldn't manage to stomach it; watching this horrendous parade of brainwashed minions. Years ago, they had their arms in the air and red bands upon their arms.

In fact, they still did.

And the ones that wanted out, the ones that did not wish to be another brand of Nazi were shot and killed. Those people became examples to the rest of the flock, so no one would ever attempt the same actions again. The sheep that were skinned and hung upon the barn yard wall.

Oh look at him, how sad. But it was due to his own stupidity. It was his own fault.

Everyone knows you don't cross walls.

They're there for a reason.

Sheep don't hop over gates.

But do wolves?

_There had to be a way out of here. _

That mess of mangled back and monstrous cement was never going to come down. It would stay up until human kind was far gone and some other race was left dominant, to regard that relic and wonder just what the hell was on the other side. Why was it truly there in the first place anyway? How do you evade the horrifying grip? How do you defeat those awful teeth?

It wouldn't matter if asteroids rained from the heavens and smacked that divide directly in the center. That eye sore was too stubborn to crumble, as were the ones that patrolled it.

No. Nature crumbled before it; not the other way around. How else did East Germany become so very lifeless?

Berlin did not stand. It merely fell. Infected by cancer, its blood spattered against those shitty buildings.

After all, they took essence to send those edifices reeling up toward that dour sky.

Gilbert sipped his coffee.

And then he got up and went to bed.

You've got to get the hell out of here, Gil.

You've just got to.


	4. Chapter 4

It was only steps away. It seem ironic to be so incredibly near and yet entirely absent at the same instance.

You had to get past the bricks. The bricks were the problem. Perhaps the chain linked fence on the either side wouldn't be such an enormous deal; if one could cut through it. But the guards and the bricks.

Gilbert listened as those gigantic trucks moved out of the area, going on patrol. Their engines roared like lions and their bodies shook with power.

Then, the brick was again considered.

How strong could it possibly be?

Strong enough to halt the momentum of a vehicle weighing several thousand pounds? Who knows? Depends on how fast you went.

Now there's an idea.

The sun beat down.

And the Russian, making his rounds, landed at the side of that enraged Weillschmidt. That gun was grasped as though it had morphed to a club.

"Hello, Gilbert."

"Again? I just saw you yesterday."

"I know. I figured you were missing me."

"I wasn't."

"I see." Again, Ivan was eating a loaf of tender and warm bread. Where in the hell did he get those loaves? Did he buy them from someone and bring them back to base? Much less, how was it that they were always warm and so very fragrant? It was a conundrum that troubled the soldier more and more every time it reared its ugly Slavic head.

"Hey, Braginski. Why do you always carry around a gun? Aren't you just supervising the supervisors?"

"Oh? I'm not supposed to carry a gun, then?"

"No."

"Well, it's the duty of every citizen to protect the wall. If a civilian came here with a gun to make sure no trespassers got through, I'd let him or her stay. After all, it's only the right thing to do."

Gilbert could have puked.

The silence following helped eat up the sickness gathering inside his stomach.

"Gil, can I ask you a question?"

"Don't you call me Gil. My brother is the only one allowed to call me by that name, you got that you son of a bitch?"

"Да, Да. I'm sorry Gilbert. Anyway. I just wanted to ask you how you felt about communism."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'm simply curious. You look like a guy with an interesting view on things. You're not as young as the kids running around here."

"The kids don't know shit."

"No, I suppose they don't. But how about an answer?"

"Yeah. Communism s great. It's just wonderful. I'm so glad to be a part of it."

"You don't believe that."

"You took me away from my brother."

"Excuse me?"

"_You took me away from my brother_. That's what I said."

"Well, I _personally_ didn't do that, Gilbert. That Soviet Union did. But it was for the better. The East Germans are happier now than they've ever been."

Gilbert's gun was shaking. "Is that the reason why we're stationed here? To shoot down our own people? Because they're _happy?_"

"Well, there's always going to be a few bad eggs, don't you think? Not everyone can be perfectly alright with such a drastic change. A lot of people need to adjust. And some simply can't. Some have to break laws that were meant to keep the whole of the population safe. There's nothing wrong with shooting criminals."

"But they're not criminals." The smaller was speaking through clenching teeth.

"What now?"

"_Nothing_. Just nothing. I don't have a damn thing to say."

"I don't think that's true. Everyone has something to say above the Berlin Wall, don't they?"

"Of course they do, but they're certainly not allowed to say it. If that was the case, I'm sure you wouldn't think us East Germans as all too happy." Gilbert spit his hatred into the dirt. "I used to be proud, but being proud in East Germany doesn't mean the same thing anymore."

"Well, I don't know, Gilbert. I think a lot of people are happy with the very fair changes being made. The women are working; new buildings are coming up. It's a real improvement if you ask me." That supervisor took his final bite of bread. "Oh, excuse me comrade. How rude. I ate all my bread without even asking you if wanted any. But listen-I have these great cigars. Do you want one of those?"

"No."

He would love one.

"Oh, not even just an isty-bitsy cigar? You know, I probably shouldn't let you smoke on duty, but hey, we're just standing around out here in happy little East Berlin. No one's going to cross the wall today, my friend. It's too damn hot." A pair of fat rolls was claimed from Ivan's pocket. One was handed to the one on duty and the other sat between Ivan's lips after being subjected to a lighter's flame. "Did you know, Gilbert, that some people don't light cigars at all? Some people just chew them up and swallow them. Can you even believe that? And I know because I watched it happen once. I knew this man-"

"Why are you telling me this? Do you want me to eat this fucking cigar? Is that it? You Russians don't seem to mind using Germans to entertain you anyway."

"'You Russians'? Oh, Gilbert. You hurt my feelings. I would never ask you to eat a cigar. I was just telling an interesting story I happened to remember, you understand? And really, we Soviets aren't such bad guys. I think that the lovely people of East Germany are just as good as the lovely people living in the Soviet Union. That is, if they're good communists. I don't think any capitalist, regardless of where he lives, should be allowed to choose whether or not he'd like to eat a cigar. However, Gilbert, if you would like to eat your cigar, I certainly won't look down on you. It's probably healthier that way, don't you think?"

"Healthier? Who gives a shit about healthier? You're smoking."

Boiling laughter. "You're very right, comrade." That gargantuan palm sat upon Gilbert's shoulder a moment. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I didn't come over here to just make nice conversation. One of the guys working the night shift got sick, and he's at home at the moment. Would you mind covering for him?"

Before Gilbert could sigh, his counterpart continued on speaking. "I know I'm asking a lot, but you're one of the best, Weillschmidt. You scored the highest with your rifle and we both know nothing bad ever goes down during the day. They always try to escape at night. And tell you what- I'll give you all of tomorrow off. You don't even have to think of this place for the next twenty-four hours."

"Will you be here?"

"No, no. I'll be at home."

"Then I'll do it."

"Wonderful! Thanks, Gilbert. Here." Another cigar was given to the man. "You really saved my ass. I'll see you later."

And as quickly as he came, Ivan Braginski vanished, running into someone else's life with his intrusive presence and obnoxious anecdotes.

Like a car crashing into a wall, you could say.

Gilbert tucked the tobacco away and clutched that heavy rifle. Oh he'd give just about anything to pop that Russian right between the eyes. _Anything_. Just so he'd never had to deal with another, "Hello Gilbert" and an uncomfortable conversation to chase it down.

And the man stayed, certain Ludwig would forgive him for missing a night. After all, this was not the first time something like this had occurred.

Gilbert wasn't sure he had the strength today; to glance at the pearls he had allowed into the sewer.

Or perhaps he was in the sewer.


	5. Chapter 5

So everyone stood outside that had been doomed to the night shift. There were far fewer men this time of day, and considering what Braginski had said it did not quite add up. Perhaps the day shift was merely an excuse to employ more men. Or perhaps it was a ploy to make that barrier look far more intimidating.

Whatever was occurring, Gilbert was bored regarding that idiotic barrier. It seemed stupid he spent so much protecting something he found absolutely fetid. Dogs eating dogs instead of choking away the cats.

What a waste.

And he was not the only one who felt it was waste. The soldiers in his area were content to sit upon the ground and speak with one another, wives and exhaustion lacing their tongues.

Gilbert had the tail of gun prodding into the dirt.

Were they the ones not taking this seriously?

"Are they going to care if we don't stay on guard?" Gilbert glanced at the other two; they wore masks of exasperation and were well-worn, bags wilting beneath their closing eyes and blank expressions kept about their faces.

"No. As long as that Braginski isn't here everything should be alright."

"He's the only one who'll yell at us for taking a break from standing."

"Did either of you have to work the day shift too?"

"I did." One guard with a well-kept mustache answered. "I've been on my feet all day. Are you filling in for someone?"

"That's right. I am." Gilbert took a spot next to his sudden companions, who were all bound in a sad sort of understanding. "I was promised a day off tomorrow."

"How lucky." One man took out a cigarette while the other lighted its end. "I'd kill for a day off at this point. They have me scheduled so strangely, sometimes I'll work eight days in a row; day and night. If that's how they want it to be, I'm not bothering with this stupid wall. Those trespassers can leap over this damn thing as far as I'm concerned. This gun is too heavy to hold up after ten hours."

"You're right." The man with the fine mustache yawned a rather lengthily moment. "I'm too old for this shit. I didn't join the service to stand around all day. I was hoping for a little more action."

Gilbert laughed. "It might be more fun if someone actually tried to cross over here."

The others nodded in agreement.

"Is there even a supervisor?" Gilbert searched, seeing not much beyond the lights hovering above his very crown.

"Well, there is, but only one. And he doesn't really harp on you for sitting down. We can all feel the pain."

"Then why not go home?"

"Well, you don't want to be too dishonest. After all, these communists don't fuck around. But maybe you're right." The one with that cleanly patch of hair hovering above his lip rose. "I've gotta stretch. I'll be walking back to the office."

Then the other followed glancing at the one left over and those intense scarlet orbs.

"We'll be back soon. Then you can take a break."

A nod.

And Gilbert sat and waited, listening to the entire world and nothing at all. There was a soft breeze that was not present during that day. How peaceful it was; how tranquil. The blond took in a heavy breath as though drinking from a kindly spring of crystalline water. It smelled of summer, carrying the stench of grass from a nearby field.

Oh, how the memories _burned._

The odor of green was the odor of nostalgia. And for Gilbert, Nostalgia meant a heavy prick to the heart. A sweet bumble bee stinging him right on the tip of the nose.

It would be so much easier to be born into it.

Then he heard a rustle of bushes and soft whispers. It came from a few trees standing across from him, and the many bushes lining them.

The one left over rose, but he did not bring his rife. Instead, those strong arms came up into the air, declaring their peace.

The people in the bush must have been confused, but the soldier still approached.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Listen. I'll help you get over the wall." Gilbert's voice was well quiet. "Did you bring something to cut the wire fence with?"

"Yes."

The man smiled.

"Alright. You have to move fast because the others might catch you, and they'll shoot. But if you can stay fairly quiet, no one should pick you up. It's surprisingly dark in there. Follow me." There was a motion toward that mess of brick and those forms, whoever they belonged to, move quickly behind the one supposed to be executing them.

He turned a moment and caught their faces, but it was merely a flash, for those bodies- there were three of them- were being hoisted over the wall by the East German's powerful muscles. They each thanked him, two women and a single man, and made plopping noises as they landed within the soil of that frightening no man's land. The guard listened anxiously; hearing that metal being clipped away, bit by quiet bit, and the large cry of the fence as a breakthrough was made.

This all happened in the course of about seven minutes, if it was even that long. And Gilbert felt content inside that chest as he listened to the feet of those refugees moving away.

They were West Germans now.

What a relief that must be.

The other guards were observed.

"Did you hear something? It's coming from over there."

"I heard footsteps."

A young man ran towards Weillschmidt. "Was there anyone over here?"

"No. You must have heard me. I was kicking the dirt. Sorry about that."

"Oh. Did you hear the fence on the other side move?"

"Not more than a shake. It sounded like the wind might have caught it for a minute. There's a stronger breeze tonight."

"Yes, there is…If you see anyone, let us know. We'll be sure to open fire with you. As ridiculous as it sounds, it can be difficult to shoot a moving target even when they're near to you. Feel free to yell."

"Yes sir." Gilbert grinned that wild sideways curve of his. "No one's getting past this wall tonight." Except anyone who wants to get the fuck out of East Germany.

"Good to hear." And that youngster ran back to his post, to his faux game of war. He had never shot anyone before. Not in his life.

The targets are hard to hit because you don't want to hit them.

The kids don't know shit.

Gilbert sat back down and smoked a cigarette.


	6. Chapter 6

It was his day off, and Gilbert sat upon that tall hill of gravel and broken concrete he usually took up when going to see his long lost brother.

But how can he be long and lost if he's just over there?

Gilbert didn't know.

Concrete barriers did a hell of a lot of damage.

He sat there with his silvery-blond hair caught within the gentle breeze that had seemed to caress him the night before hand, eating a loaf of bread and contemplating all things wrong.

Oh, he had gone over it a million times in his mind, pin-pointing every little off moment. All the fights they had. All the heated and unintentional words that seared wounds into the back of his skull. It was awful how the negative stood out. A spot of blood upon a clean white shirt. A bombshell left in the after math of a beautiful city.

But those things had been cleared, hadn't they? The carnage had been deposited in deep black trash bags and everything had been welded back into buildings and streets- hadn't it?

_Hadn't it? _

Maybe too many broken bits had been made into a barrier.

Gilbert stared at the buildings he could have visited only a few years prior. He stared at the green and the soil and the sunshine. He stared at the colors and the people looking back at him. He stared at the West Germans. The West Germans stared at the East Germans.

Then Gilbert stared at the grey and red lacing his land. He stared at the broken bits of everything lining the streets and the very ground he sat upon.

He stared to his loaf of bread, hard as a rock and half gone.

He stared at his tired hands, calloused from grasping a gun night and day.

It was so damn hot.

Why was he sitting outside?

Gilbert's eyes burned and shut tight. He put the stone he was devouring upon the dirt where it belonged, and those tarnished hands ate up his expression.

A choke traveled up his esophagus, and no matter how he attempted to push it back, it only forced on, stronger than the last push. And as he struggled, those sights grew only murkier. It was pain to fight this; it was painful to battle every day, constantly strangling the truth and trying not to swallow the fact that this goddamn wall might never come to its knees.

It was hard- so fucking hard- to lose everything. To bleed until they took every damn drop. The communists had everything and the people nothing at all.

That was not what they had promised. But no one was surprised. Everyone knew that red promises were empty as paper bags. You tore through them. Nothing came out. Nothing had ever gone in.

And it caused a constant ache. The same ache every sane East German suffered through. They saw their homes destroyed; labeled another part of the country that was once one. Many did not have the luxury to be born into this society. Many had to watch and stay silent as the bones of Germany were broken into forty different pieces and scattered between two sides of a god-barren wall. The good people of East Germany did not have the luxury of being born again. They could not enter a family with full siblings and two parents, who loved them even though life stained crimson was quite the hell to walk through. Those who did had no idea of how lucky they were.

The kids don't know shit.

They had yet to fight and die and have their lives flipped and shaken. Scrambled up like eggs and eaten by Russians. They were born within the carnage; they knew nothing else. It was normal, and they were seduced into _adoring_ it.

But men like Gilbert, who had worn the Führer's uniform and marched inside the battlefields and risked their lives, were truly the ones the wall had torn in two. They were humiliated. Stripped naked and carried from the arms of their mothers and fathers, their family, _their brothers. _

By this wall. This dungeon.

It cost so much more than Gilbert could ever afford.

But could he afford to escape?

This inner turmoil, this pain, this scalding and vindictive loss, it never seemed to leave the poor man alone. All he could wonder was why and how. Why Berlin? Why Ludwig? And _how?_ How could these people _do_ this? It was an injustice to any freedom the reds claimed to support.

And the nothingness would not leave.

It's hard to breath with your lungs empty. Flat like pillow cases.

Gilbert nearly howled.

It was like suffocating on smoke, denying emotion for strength.

And those spontaneous tears came as a horrendous deluge. The man who never cried, the man they required to be tough as fucking nails, was sitting there in the dirt, weeping as a child.

Gilbert wept for his hatred. He wept for his unwanted sacrifice. He wept for his brother. He wept for Ludwig. The only family he owned was the family they stole away and blocked off.

Upon the other side, they were weeping as well, for the very same reasons. For different reasons. For the premise of loss itself.

The West and East cried for one another. Their gazes could hardly meet; their hearts would never touch- two broken pieces to a singular vase, but _goddamn_. They held each other's sorrow far more heavily than any other yin and yang could.

When Gilbert calmed, he picked himself up, brushed himself off, and started for that shitty apartment labeled 'home'.


	7. Chapter 7

Gilbert came into work the next day with the whole damn place in an uproar. There were whispers, there were developing rumors. There were angry Russians yelling in their angry language because they were so angry, angry _German_ wouldn't even cut it.

No, no. _Angry German_ was not angry _enough._

Oh man.

Gilbert managed to slip past that cluster fuck after showing them his identification card, and went straight onto duty.

But he knew what was coming. The nose of a car slapping a bare brick wall.

It was only a matter of time.

So Gilbert waited at his post, not feeling too nervous, but certainly ready to deny the adrenaline building within his crux. It was boiling slowly, but none the less boiling.

His gun shook within his hands. But only a bit. It was not noticeable; however, the holder of that mild shock could certainly feel it. It was like an earth quake about those gloved hands. Holy fuck. They burned. Take a breath, Weillschmidt. Everything's going to be alright.

At least, you can _hope_ it will be.

Hey! Your job just got interesting, solider.

"_Weillschmidt!_"

Shit.

"Weillschmidt! You get your ass over here!" The enraged and rather intimidating Slavic man made his way to that suddenly tiny East German, who held his rifle as though he was ready to strike out of mere paranoia. It was a situation worth defensive measures. Ivan could be frightening. Certainly.

"Do you hear me?"

Without words, the knight faced the roaring beast. He clutched his sword, praying the demon could not smell his fear. Just what the hell have you become? Afraid of Russians are we?

They stared a long moment, with Gilbert's organs twisting into coils beneath his own scrutiny. He could feel them crush together, soft tissue melding and becoming all new mechanisms that did not even function correctly. A gasp. But only in the mind.

"Follow me. Now."

And Gilbert followed.

In a flash, they found themselves in chairs, upon opposite sides of a heavy desk of old wood. The one in question tried in desperation to recall the walk to this place. It was the longest walk he had been on for a while, but the whole thing swelled and exploded. A blister he didn't remember receiving or even treating.

Well. It didn't matter now.

Those burgundy gazes swooped over the whole chamber. It was awfully claustrophobic for an office. And the whole room was this ugly steel grey, with file cabinets stacked on every wall and very little space to move around. It was comical that they put such a big man in such a small room. Like trying to eat an apple in a single bite.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No."

"No?" Dented brows and a scalding tone. "Why, Weillschmidt. I thought out of everyone here, you would know why you're sitting in my office."

"I don't."

"_You don't._"

"No clue."

"You're lying to me. I know you _think_ I'm stupid, but you'd best get it straight in your head that I'm _not._"

"Who said I thought that of you?"

"You're shaking."

"So are you."

It was with anger.

"You know, Weillschmidt. I could turn you in for any number of things. Your true feelings about communism and the Soviet Union; your constant s visits to wall to see your brother and now. _Now_ you've let an entire family just _go_."

"Prove it."

"I don't need to. Every last bit of evidence I have points to _you_, Gilbert. The foot prints in _your_ area, the noises the other guards heard in _your_ station. _What are you doing?_"

The opposite did not answer his interrogator.

"You do realize you're under heavy surveillance, don't you? That's not good. Look- if you don't be more careful, they're going to _arrest_ you. With your thick head you probably don't even know what it entails-" The Russian caught his rushing breath, air draining from his chest as the helium from a broken balloon. "Listen, you _need_ to stop this."

"Stop _what?_"

"_You know what!_" The giant was standing after slamming either hand upon the surface before him, and they locked eyes, battling it out with intense glares and even more intense adrenaline. The bloodshed occurred upon either side, swords jabbing, trying to catch raw meat and acquire crimson stains.

"I _like_ you, Gilbert. This is why I _don't_ report you. You're not a bad man and you could even be a great communist one day. But if you let another family or even just a person over that wall, I'm not going to have a choice but to turn you in. _My ass_ is on the line here too." Blue and red mixing. "I'm willing to write this one off as a mistake. And you're lucky, because usually the first one is the last one. But now you're going to have to watch everything you do, down to the food you eat and the water you drink."

Weillschmidt stayed mute.

"Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Yes." Gilbert wore an expression mixed with anger, apology, and gratefulness churning with regret. The child pushed before the parent's all too needed punishment. No one enjoyed it, but it was for the better.

"Don't see your brother any longer. Don't even go back there. The moment you do is the moment they'll take you in, and you might never come out. It's not worth it, no matter how you may feel."

"How do you even know?"

"There are eyes _everywhere_, Gilbert. You can't avoid them. No one can."

A pause. "Why me?"

"Why not you? You're the only one who has an ounce of character around here. You keep things interesting." Braginski's tone was still sharp as a whip and just as cruel. "So I don't want to send you to a firing squad, or a prison. But make no mistake. An enemy of the state is an enemy of the state. If you leave me no choice, then there's nothing I can do."

A frustrated sigh and the passionate man stopped speaking.

"Thanks, Braginski." Those words tasted like blood and razors. But he meant them. Maybe that's why they hurt to such a degree. "I…I owe you one."

"Just-Just get out of my office. We didn't have this conversation. Go do your job."

So Gilbert went and did his job, flipping over the words that supervisor had fed him. He rolled them over that sore tongue. He tasted them fully and tried to remember if all of this had truly occurred. It was like trying to remember specific moments when utterly intoxicated. But they still played over and over and over; a broken record calling out the same insults until the player was tossed from the open window.

There was no way the man could improve. He was not cut out for communism. It wasn't in his skills to be a sheep, lead by a burly shepherd who mumbled curse words no one understood. They would certainly destroy him, eventually.

It might be today.

It might be tomorrow.

It might be next month.

But Gilbert would not last in this hell marked East Berlin. They had him on the list. Everyone knew you didn't get off the list.

Well, Weillschmidt! It seems your challenge got a little more difficult! Get over the wall, win your life back and _your_ baby brother, or lose everything! You've got quite the bet here, don't you? Well, good luck!

Get out, Gilbert.

Get out while you still can.


	8. Chapter 8

Well. Gilbert had thought about it. He knew what to do. In a way.

Day after day, he observed those heavy vehicles, moving all around that base. They were strong, and they were sturdy. And they could do a hell of a lot of damage to a couple of bricks.

That was the answer then.

But how to do you drive one?

Gilbert had seen the inside of one of those vehicles beforehand. They were not normal cars. But how hard could it be? He would just need to ask someone. And there was the catch. He had to ask someone _quickly_. The hour glass was slipping. He watched the sand and he watched his watchers.

Get out or die. That's what it meant; truly. His name was on a list. They were spying. And when they spy, whoever _they _are, there is no hope for the prey beneath that magnifying glass. Every little imperfection is cause for bullets. Problems could be made out of the most minor of offenses. Slip up a little and they lock you away. They _execute_ you. It was a case when one did not doubt for a moment the stories that came slipping out from beneath the prison doors. Everything they did, the torture, the shots, the punishment, was the truth. That was all the poor little East Germans had.

They were mice beating down the glares of lions.

You believed what was said. It was worse to be wrong than conscious. Conscious meant safe. Wrong boiled down to dead.

No one wanted to be dead.

Gilbert took a heavy gulp, again wondering how exactly things had become so incredibly bad. You're put under the microscope for trying to help someone make their life better. You can't see your dear little brother. You can't do a damn thing, and the minute you try, they put a firing squad in front of you.

This thought process took Gilbert to his break. The grey-blond during that time, found his so called comrades and their jeeps and approached slowly.

It was almost as horrendous as yesterday. The two longest walks in his entire life coming one day after the next. What would tomorrow be like? How about the rest of today? Each foot print upon the gravel felt like an anchor tied to each of his boots. That strong heart receded into his stomach, but that was alright. Gilbert was determined. Heroes weren't heroes unless they were afraid sometimes.

So after those long lasting foot-prints and after all the building panic and rising blood pressure, Gilbert found his eyes meeting those of the drivers. He studied their faces; he drank up their gazes as though it was water to the starving plant. He was walking on mines and he knew it.

But luckily, they knew him. And they said hello.

"Hello, Gilbert." Smiles. "How have you been?"

"I've been. Well. I've been a lot of things. Mostly unwell. Lonely. Longing for a cigarette too. How about all of you?"

"Just about the same."

They all laughed together.

"I've always been curious, is it hard to drive one of those? You know, I really want to switch my position, but I don't want to do something that takes _too_ much training."

"Well, who would blame you? It's horrible guarding that goddamn wall all day long. I did the exact same thing before I started working on these babies."

"Alright." That cocky smile Gilbert put on in situations like this marked that mouth, despite the tension running his blood through those veins in a nervous shamble. "So, can you tell me a little bit about this thing? Does it work like a normal car?"

"Well, pretty much, with a few differences. See-you use this handle to switch gears- and obviously, they key goes here. The steering wheel works just as it does in any other vehicle, but you have to be kind of strong to drive one of these. It's a pretty heavy machine."

"I can see that. So wait, what about this thing right here? I've never seen one of those before."

"Oh, that one? You'd like that one-"

It went on that way for nearly ten minutes. The gas gauge. The engine. The speedometer. The gears. The breaks. The lights too. Gilbert asked every possible question in the book. How about that one? What does _that _do? Oh, that looks interesting. Oh wow. It does that too? I had no idea.

He tried to memorize that machine in and out before he was required to leave. As though there was going to be a gigantic test upon this material, and had he not taken any notes, mental or otherwise, he would fail. And it was an exam. But there was so much more at stake than a mere grade.

"Wow, Gil. You really like cars, don't you?"

"You're damn right I do. I'm sure I should have asked to be in this sector. Do you guys play with the tanks? Those are pretty great."

"Actually-"

But the entire conversation was interrupted.

"Hey, all of you get back to work! Weillschmidt! Get back to the wall!"

It took a moment for the man to compose himself. That was another thing. What was the point of living if you couldn't be obscene? He was tempted to send a big old 'fuck you' to his supervisors. Each and every one of them.

But that was against the rules.

So the fire brand went on back to his place in the dirt. And his brain began to sew pieces together.

It was not like him to plot. Weillschmidt was as spontaneous as they came. However, there was too much weight in being rash. He never could truly break out, shoot down his fellow guards and climb over that chain linked fence, all within a minute. It would easier just to put the barrel n your mouth. You wouldn't spend any energy running. It was the same outcome anyway.

The day went faster with thought. Hours passed by like the pages of a children's book. Not the difficult novel that life was becoming. Anything published by the Soviets was hard to stomach. So Gilbert wallowed in thought. He spoke to that Russian who allowed him another chance; he gathered sweat upon his brow, pain inside his shoes. And after he filled out his time, the soldier went home, and he placed his most precious things inside a small sack.

You can take three things with you, at best. What goes out of East Germany? What is truly worthy?

A photo album.

An old journal.

That was all that was worth taking. Just the memories. He went to sleep shortly after that.

I'm coming Ludwig.

Just wait.


	9. Chapter 9

Gilbert had slept a little while. Then he left. It was the bare hours of the morning. 's when he left that home, wearing the most comfortable of clothing. At the moment Weillschmidt was a civilian. He would be very soon. At least, that was his greatest hope. But life wasn't worth living when you had no life.

So Gilbert went back to that awful little base, and came into the area he was in, speaking with the men who taught him to drive. He came to the door of that office, and luckily, it was left open. Occasionally, these things were not locked up because the entire complex never truly closed. There was no use in that system resting. If it slept, all of East Berlin would come running toward it.

He was prepared to break a window. But luckily, that was not required either.

Gilbert came into that chamber, and he glanced to all the walls. Again, there were files upon files in a sad space, and a board with numerous and illegible notes attached to its chest. A desk sinking beneath the weight of tyrannical papers. More to be filed away and clipped to the board. Near the door were the many sets of keys, all hung up so nice and neatly for Mr. Weillschmidt to have his pick. They were numbered, the first wrack holding one through eight. The second, nine through sixteen, the third seventeen through twenty-four. And finally, twenty-five through thirty two upon the last set. He took the first key upon the first set, tucking the much needed trinket on the inside of his sleeve. So no one would possibly see, if there was anyone left at all.

The clock read 4:03. So far so good.

This was third time in last week that nervousness had captured his system. Gilbert was truly beginning to feel as a bank robber does, constantly surrounded by nosey police. Every last moment was soaked in blood pressure and tension. Everything happened in slow motion, frame by frame, second by second. Every step was louder than normal; ever breath weighed too much. The smells and colors were beyond vibrant. It was the first time that being an East German was exciting. However, this was not the right sort of excitement.

Every grain of sand beneath his boot could give that operation away.

But once again, Gilbert was fortunate. He got to those vehicles and found the first to go with the first key on the first rack.

Gilbert glanced around.

They were all too busy guarding the bricks he was about to crack. East Berlin's bones would be broken this morning, but that was alright. Sometimes one had to knock over the tower to see the sun.

The key touched to the ignition.

Click.

Adrenaline.

Turn.

Adrenaline.

The engine coming to life.

Adrenaline.

Those hands were shaking as quakes ran though them, nearly possessing them, but the owner forced them to work. The break, the gears, the clutch. Slowly, that monster began breathing. Its engine roared with vigor and its wheels stretched, popping as joints. Then, it brought the refugee forward. Its core beat just as fast, and with a few presses to that gas, the body was forced forward.

And as a startled horse, it began to run.

Gilbert clicked off its lights.

This wasn't so hard.

It was almost a regular vehicle.

At this moment, the thief ignored his screaming and convulsing limbs. This was a mission and failure was not an option; he had put his money upon the line and losing the bet could cost everything. Not only would they seize his home and possessions, but they would seize his blood as well. Every last drop of it.

But none of that crossed his mind. He was so focused upon the road, he could hardly see where it was leading or how fast he went.

The gears were cranked upward. The beast howled, a lion running after the stupid Gazelle, a high speed chase leading to the end of the line. The end of the wall. Oh, he would have that goddamn thing cornered.

Damn, Gil. You're really shaking.

It was an impossibly long drive, almost fifteen minutes with non-descript background. Trees and bushes and a road holding a plethora of forks and bumps.

But after all those long, long seconds to accompany all the others, the wall was finally seen. Ugly grey concrete drawing nearer and nearer.

Finally, at top speed, Gilbert fought Berlin's tragedy. The bricks fell around the nose of his getaway car.

Immediately, there were lights and shouting and incomprehensible noise. Gilbert grabbed his bag of sweet memories and slung them upon his back. Then, he_ fucking_ ran. He climbed over the ruined Jeep and the bricks, into no man's land, past the crying guards and the coming bullets. Gilbert found the fence, with the harsh wiring lining its brow, and climbed as fast as he could.

He went really goddamn fast too.

Those boots fit into the coils, and they took that monkey into the barbed wire. Into the glass barrier holding the bird from the sky.

_Fuck. _

A bullet jammed itself into the criminal's calf, but nothing stopped him. Those hands gripped the wire as though it was everything he had lost. He embraced it as he would his sibling, because if he did not, it was over. The little teeth of that cruel metal tore through his arms as though they were paper, the palms, the sleeves, the flesh. But the man could not even feel the sensation that would soon split those nerves into a thousand different pieces. The blood beginning to flow was not even given a scrap of attention. There was no more focus to give to such miniscule details.

Crimson was left upon the wire. Gilbert had cleared that obstacle.

Now was the next wall.

Another bite to his right shoulder; he screamed like an animal, but gripped the ugly mess of brick with those tarnished palms. With all the might that body could muster, Gilbert pulled himself up, legs kicking and bleeding. Boots dug into the oppressive thing's chest and half his body was placed within the West.

There were voices. Voices and someone pulling upon his shredded arm, helping that poor soul be reborn as a new man; as a West German.

Then, Weillschmidt fell upon the ground, the air knocked from his lungs as balloons bursting to a needle's touch. The backpack was crushed beneath him, and his whole form was overcome with pain and shock. Oh, there were the bullet wounds. There were the tarnished arms.

"_Ludwig!_" The torn creature could only remember one word. "_Ludwig!_" He was beginning to sob. And it was at that point he lost his consciousness, tears streaming down that excruciated expression, chest heaving. The ones around him rushed for help.

You made it, Gilbert.

_You made it._

The corpse did not feel the lift into an ambulance, nor did he feel the needles prodding into the veins, shooting in painkillers and reducing the shock. He did not feel the doctors pull out the bullets and wrap up the lacerations. He did not feel the gauze cover his arms and soak up the crimson as the scars and scabs formed.

He did not feel the hospital bed engulfing him. He did not feel those sweet covers or the comfort. Gilbert did not feel anything at all. _Nothing._

Well, Ladies and Gentlemen! It looks like we have a winner! Get this man his prizes!

Congratulations, Mr. Weillschmidt! _You've won!_

Confetti drenched the whole damn room.


	10. Epilogue

He awoke in something of a daze. But what a surprise, right? If he succeeded, he expected those eyes to be nearly glued shut; those limbs to be bloodied and broken. He was anticipating bullet holes and nerves twisting up in rotten pain.

"Oh! Look at that, Mr. Weillschmidt. You're awake." A nurse adjusted the drip they had worked into his arm. "Did you really cross over the Berlin Wall? I didn't really believe it when they told me."

"I guess I did…." Weak eyes managed to pull themselves into the room. It was pleasant. Sun light filtered into that space. Colorful pictures hung about the walls, pictures of sunflowers and women smiling. A radio sat on a shelf, and the whole damn place looked like an all too pleasant dream. So was it real?

Gilbert assumed he must have died; after all, East Germans were East Germans until their government decided they couldn't be East Germans anymore. But it looked like he _made_ it.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" That voice was hackneyed from not being used in several long hours. "This isn't Heaven or something?"

"No, no. You're in West Berlin, dear." That kindly nurse offered a smile. "You did a very brave thing…I hope you recover quickly soon, Mr. Weillschmidt."

"Thank you." That tired body attempted to move, but it could not. Those joints were too tired and far too torn apart to attempt anything of that nature. "Nurse, can I have a mirror? I want to see how awful I look."

"Not as awful as you should. But certainly. Give me a moment."

And a moment later, that sunny woman returned and held a piece of reflective glass out for the refugee. He reviewed himself. That face was alright. A single scratch, but those arms were torn to shreds due to the malicious teeth of the barbed wire, and his shoulder was well wrapped in gauze. He could tell they had torn out the bullet that had lodged itself inside his shoulder blade. It still hurt, but it felt so much better to be free and damaged than to be unharmed and oppressed.

"Thank you." Finally, as that woman walked away, Gilbert cast his attention to the leg that had also been wounded. He barely felt the bullet charge through his flesh. Honestly, it felt as though his skin had merely been glazed, not pierced. Oh well. He would heal quickly. That silvery-blond was always too active to be captive for too long anyway.

After he had admired his coming battle scars a good couple minutes, the former soldier laid right back down. It was amazing how much adrenaline cost. His whole body was still encased in a wearing exhaustion. He was submerged in a pool of iron. There was no moving around, no swimming through it. Now it was time to rest. The temporary invincibility took a toll.

Besides, he would not call his brother looking like this. Gilbert wanted to see Ludwig, not scare the living shit out of him. A few days would be taken to heal. Those bandages would be made fresh and less bloody, like dressing up for an occasion. Then he would summon his brother. Then they would have their reunion. But the moment had to be perfect. Such a momentous occasion couldn't be documented with the elder just coming from an intense boxing match, and not to mention one he almost lost.

Good Job, Gil. You took down the Berlin wall.

That must feel amazing.

It did.

So, the sponge baths and pills were accepted, as was the sleep. It never really hit the man how tired he actually was. Gilbert slept as a man who had not tasted dreams for months. An insomniac who finally managed to get better. Stay up a few years, sleep a week. Hey, it all worked out, right?

And then, after those tired bandages had been replaced and those arms were beginning to work again, Gilbert asked to give a phone call to what family he had. After all, he had waited. He had _earned _this. Now he was simply tired of waiting.

So they allowed him to walk down that hall to the pay phone-the very pay phone that they had given him a few coins for, since poor Gilbert had no money of his own. And he placed them in. One clank. Two clanks. Three clanks. Then the numbers. His weak fingers turned the dial, the phone speaking to him with each digit that was registered. You're getting closer. Come on, you can do it!

Then, there was the ringing.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"_Please_, pick up. Don't tell me you moved. I'll scream."

"Hello?"

Gilbert sucked in a huge breath.

"_Hello?_"

"Ludwig?" Please tell me it's you. I'll die if that's not you. Do you understand that? My whole heart will explode just because you're not the right guy. It sounds like you. Don't tell me I'm wrong. Please.

The other end was silent, but not for too long. "_Gilbert?_" There was a breath. "How are you calling me?"

"It's-it's a long story…" That mouth was growing stupid due to emotion. "Listen, I'm at the hospital-"

"Are you alright? What did you do?"

"Something really stupid." A sad laughter. "But I'm doing just fine. I'm getting better every day…" Pause. "Can you come down here? I think it's about time you scolded me for doing something rash, don't you think? And for God's sake, bring some beer…"

"No beer, Mr. Weillschmidt." The voice of a nurse called in from the background.

"Never mind about the beer…We can do that later. But do you think you can make it? Actually you better make it. I switched out all my bandages and everything to look nice, so I'm going to be _pissed_ if you don't come down here right now." Laughter. Tears were falling down the proud man's face. "Alright? I'm doing this for you, kid."

"Of course I can, Gilbert. Give me twenty minutes."

"I'll be watching the clock."

"You better be." That breath hitched. "I'm leaving now."

"Good-bye, Ludwig."

"Good-bye, Gil."

Ludwig was there within fifteen.

When the two saw one another, the experience was almost surreal. It was like staring at the one thing you had wanted for years upon end. That needed salvation, that long awaited goal that was thought constantly impossible. They doubted it at first. The missing brother in the flesh? This was nothing more than one of those sadistic dreams that left the one who had concocted it in a sea of rage and regret.

But neither awoke.

So they ran toward one another, those forms hitting as two grand tsunamis. No words were birthed. It was not time for that, as no syllable could express the sentiment either held close as their very blood.

Simply, they sobbed. The stories would come later. The explanations-later. The nagging for doing such a _stupid, stupid_ thing- later. But now, they had one another. They held the family they had lost within their powerful arms, the memories both good and bad, the sorrow, the happiness, the world. They had all of those things wrapped up within one another, and nothing would -or ever could- take them away a second time. Their muscles were grasping too tight. They were sobbing too hard. It was far too passionate a moment to mar with the opening of eyes. No. This was absolutely _real._

The risk, the blood, the bullets, the pain. It was all worth it. Now those things did not matter. They were long gone, kept in a shoe box and buried stories beneath the earth. Now, after years of having nothing to look upon, there was a future. There was freedom. There was unfettered happiness, eating up the ashen remains of that sorrow. At least, what sorrow wasn't left in East Berlin.

Everyone watched as this occurred. And they found tears upon their faces as well.

After all, it was not every day one met a man who could say he faced down that monster of concrete and wires and _won._ And it was not every day that one witnessed two lives broken apart come back together again. As magnets. As puzzle pieces. As the million shattered bits to a broken figurine. As two brothers ripped apart by a moronic idea.

Finally, after tortuous months of flattened lungs, Gilbert Weillschmidt could breathe. And all he had to do was kick a wall's ass.

He wondered why he had not done so before hand.


End file.
